


That’s how friendship works, Draco

by vivi1138



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Bullying, Don't add to Goodreads, Don't copy to another site, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Getting Together, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, this is still mostly fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-17 23:23:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21551476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivi1138/pseuds/vivi1138
Summary: Someone's brilliant idea to open the common rooms to every student brings none other than Scarhead straight into Draco's safe space.The thing is, he doesn't mind that much.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 54
Kudos: 742





	That’s how friendship works, Draco

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to my beta [Aylaar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aylaar)  
> This story has been edited on 19.01.20.
> 
> \-----
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing. J.K. Rowling does.
> 
> I have not given permission for this fic to be present on any App or website other than Ao3. I make no money out of this. Do not use applications to read this. Every fic on Ao3 can be downloaded to be read offline.

The dungeons are draughty when Draco comes back from yet another humiliating dinner, and all he wants is to curl up into a ball in front of the fireplace. He brought it all upon himself; he knows that, what with letting the Dark Lord brand him and use him, but it still hurts. He doesn’t think he was punished enough, but no one gives him a chance to atone. Most students believe he should be dead. 

Draco’s pride wants to show them that he’s fine, he’s alive, and it’s all thanks to their precious Saviour. Scarhead stood on the witness stand at his trial, defended him, managed to limit his punishment to 10 months in Dementor-free Azkaban when the entire Wizarding World called for him to rot. He saved Draco’s mother, too. Draco doesn’t blame him for staying silent about Lucius.

It’s been 18 months since the Battle of Hogwarts. It took a year to rebuild the castle, to make the grounds safe again. In September, Draco walked through the massive doors, fully expecting a steep road ahead of him. He wasn’t wrong.

Today brought another string of insults, hexes and hatred. Eating in the Great Hall resulted in a cruel prank that burned his hand, which he is now cradling close to his chest. 

The common room is blessedly quiet. He’s the only Slytherin who came back for what McGonagall calls eighth year, which is just seventh year with the curriculum the Carrows tore to shreds. She didn’t want to add an entire year’s worth of students to existing classes. Some of them have part-time jobs or apprenticeships already. They need adjustments. It’s like Potter, Boot and the Weasel, who don’t attend school in the morning. They’re training to be Aurors, started right after the war. Draco heard that the Ministry let them into the program on the condition that they get their NEWTs as soon as possible.

It’s odd, being in classes with Granger when the other two aren’t there. It’s weirder when she talks to him. 

She doesn’t like him. It’s okay; he doesn’t like her either. But she doesn’t loathe him, which is just too fucking strange. It doesn’t make sense. Then there’s Lovegood, who always smiles at him, or Longbottom, who greets him with that new confidence he built during the war. If Draco wasn’t already sure of his sexuality, Longbottom could quickly enlighten him. Too late. Draco knew he was gay when he was a child and crushed on Theo. He confirmed it in fourth year. It was Potter’s fault, then.

Something else is Potter’s fault, and it’s the emptiness of the Slytherin common room. Scarhead’s brilliant idea to unite students was to open every common room to the student body. Passwords are set on the dormitories now. It took a long time before any Slytherin felt welcome in another House, except for the first years. They don’t have _that_ history. Those who openly supported the Dark Lord aren’t here; Draco is the only Marked student who’s back, and even the Slytherins avoid him. It means that many children spend time in Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, and Draco is often left alone. It infuriates him, in a way, because they conveniently forget that there were more Marked students in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff than in Slytherin during the war.

Prejudice runs rampant.

No one visits the dungeons. Slytherin hasn’t had any visitors this year, even with the door wide open, and Draco wants to be surprised, but he’s not. When he thinks about it, he swallows the bitterness on his tongue and carries on. Sometimes, he finds refuge somewhere else, because perhaps they won’t be so reluctant if he’s away, but when he asks the portraits in the common room, they tell him no one dared. 

If he could, Draco would revive the Dark Lord and kill him himself to take revenge. For his situation, his family’s, those who died - friends or foes - and for his House’s reputation. Salazar Slytherin might not have been an angel, though historians contradict themselves and no one knows what he believed, no matter what they claim, but Voldemort destroyed the honour of wearing silver and green. Draco struggles to be proud of anything nowadays. He detests the man for it.

Once Draco is sitting in front of the fire, he casts a healing spell on his hand. He knows quite a few of them. One does not live with a monster for so long without picking up survival methods. 

He grabs his Transfiguration essay and uses a textbook to support the parchment as he continues working on it. Studying, doing his homework - it helps him deal with the shitshow that plagues his life.

He doesn’t bother with his Arithmancy assignments anymore. Professor Vector hates him and fails him no matter what. He studies on his own, hoping the NEWTs experts can be impartial. He’s not sure what career he wants - who would hire a Death Eater? He has no idea, so he needs to get as many NEWTs as possible. Perhaps he can work for the Goblins. They won’t care about the Mark. 

The spell on his hand eventually kills the pain. He loses himself in Animagus theory, and it’s fascinating. He loves Transfiguration. One day, he’ll start the process to find his form, and he prays to Merlin that it won’t be a ferret.

He takes a break and hears the door opening. He glances at it, expecting a fellow Slytherin, and loses his grasp on his quill. 

Potter. Scarhead himself, wearing a blue jumper and jeans that, for once, fit him like a glove, steps into the common room. He looks around, sees Draco, and asks if he’s bothering him.

Draco stares.

“Malfoy, if you don’t want me here, I can leave.”

His first instinct is to tell him that of course, he doesn’t want him there, followed by a few well-chosen insults. His brain makes itself useful and prevents him from blurting it out, choosing different words instead. “I don’t care.” A pause. “Tired of your fangirls?” He attempts a sneer and fails because Potter isn’t looking at him anymore, already slumping into a nearby couch. 

“You have no idea.”

Wait, he was right? He hates how Potter can still surprise him. “I guess even Lockhart needs a break.”

“Did you just compare me to that peacock?”

Now Potter looks at him again and the way his eyes sparkle in amusement twists his stomach. “Don’t insult peacocks, Potter, they are majestic creatures,” Draco drawls, but he’s not sincere because peacocks are not majestic, they’re a nuisance, and he should know. He still has scars on the back of his legs. Birds are messengers of evil. That includes Hagrid’s overgrown chickens.

“My apologies,” Potter replies with a wry grin. It shouldn't be so damn sexy. It’s unfair. Potter’s whole existence is an injustice. 

Silence settles, and it’s comfortable when it shouldn’t be. Potter is reading what appears to be a Muggle novel. Draco struggles to focus on his work; it’s the first time they exchange more than a word or two in a friendly manner, after all. Potter has been decent with him, but until now there was no sign that they could interact beyond basic greetings. To tell the truth, Draco is immensely curious. So many rumours about him have been proven false, what else is he mistaken about?

***

Potter’s presence in the Slytherin common room becomes a regular occurrence. Draco understands that he seeks some peace and quiet, and outside of these moments, he starts observing him carefully. He’s done this for years, obsessively, learning about Potter’s favourite foods, his habits when he eats, the way his mood translates into the position of his quill on parchment. The biggest lie about him is that he’s spoiled. Anyone who has a functioning brain can see that his family is neither loving nor caring. He got better at hiding it, but Draco remembers the tiny, malnourished boy he met in Madam Malkin. He won’t forget how little he ate when he came back to Hogwarts, how the quantities increased slowly over time then diminished in June as he got ready to go home.

Potter’s childhood must have sucked. It was just easier to convince himself that he was treated like a king.

What Draco discovers with his new observations is how much Potter hates his fame. It’s something Draco suspected, but the evidence is more damning now. He makes it so obvious. The way his jaw tenses, the lack of emotion in his eyes, even the tone of his voice indicate his disdain for it all. He knows the answer already, but still, Draco asks, “Have you realised you’d look good in green? Why do you spend all your free time here?” 

Emerald eyes pierce right through him, dark circles heavy under them. 

“No one follows me in here.”

“Perhaps, but it means spending time with me.”

A shrug. Unrefined, but what does he expect. And there’s that smile again. 

“You’re fine, Malfoy.” He watches the fire’s erratic dance and scratches his head, turning his hair into an even bigger mess. “I was supposed to be in Slytherin. Begged the Hat to sort me elsewhere.”

Only Draco’s fast reflexes prevent his inkpot, precariously balanced on the couch, from spilling all over the fabric. He has no words, and Potter laughs, the absolute arse. “You’re fucking lying.”

“I’m not! I swear.” 

So that’s why the Hat took so long! A horrible thought goes through Draco’s head. “It was because of me, wasn’t it.”

“I’d heard a few things, but you didn’t help.”

What would have happened if they had Scarhead among them? Reputation-wise, it would have done wonders, but perhaps it’s better this way. Who knows what the Carrow twins, Flint or Warrington, would have done to him. 

“For what it’s worth, I apologise,” Draco murmurs, almost too quietly. 

“Thank you. I’m sorry for not helping you when you needed it, and not giving you a chance in first year.”

Draco rolls his eyes and shifts in his seat. “I was a prat, Potter; I wouldn’t have wanted to be my friend either. In sixth year, I-” Oh, Merlin, that was hard to say. “I would have cursed you if you’d tried anything.”

A flash of hurt passes on Potter’s face. “I cursed you first. I know you can’t forgive something like this, I’m not expecting it, but I _am_ sorry. I didn’t know what that spell did. I should never have done that.”

“I was about to cast the Cruciatus on you.”

“Not a good reason to murder you.”

A rare smile stretches Draco’s lips as warmth spreads in his limbs. It feels like closing a painful chapter of their past, like they can finally move on.

The next day, Potter sits on the couch with Draco to work on his Potions essay. Draco can’t help but take a discrete look at what he’s writing, and when he sees some sort of nonsense about the properties of Ashwinder venom (it does _not_ react that way to crushed beetle eyes, honestly, Potter!), he helps him correct it.

Then he asks about Runes, Draco talks about the beauty of ancient magic, and Potter is fascinated by everything he’s told. His eyes shine, and he smiles at him, smiles at _Draco_ , because _Draco_ is teaching him things he didn’t know, opening his mind to traditions and old practices that are part of his heritage. He tells him how idiotic he is for choosing Divination and Potter laughs and replies that he’s aware.

***

It’s two days before the Christmas break, a foggy, freezing cold morning when the hatred against him finally reaches him. He uses detection charms on everything he consumes because no one can live with the Dark Lord and his insane minions and not think that maybe, some of them would find great amusement in poisoning their hosts. But for some reason, his spell doesn’t warn him this time.

He takes a sip of pumpkin juice. There’s a bitter aftertaste that alerts him immediately. He feels the blood drain from his face and casts more spells on the goblet, trying to identify what it contains and when he gets a result, he’s close to panicking. He’s out of breath, unsure if it’s because of the substance or not, but he doesn’t know what cyanide is and he’s terrified. 

He squashes his pride, stands up and attempts to walk, but he’s too weak and stumbles. Something’s wrong. He looks at the staff table; no one is paying attention because the _Daily Prophet_ was just delivered. There’s no choice. He opens his mouth to ask for help, but before he can utter a sound, strong arms wrap around him and steady him. 

“Malfoy!”

He blinks at Potter. “Poison,” he says, and Potter’s hold on him tightens, his face turns into a mask of fury. “C-cyanide.”

He loses his balance and Potter screams for help.

***

Draco’s memories of what happened are blurry. He can’t feel his body, aside from an odd tingling sensation in his hands, but when he slips out of his half-dreamy, half-conscious state and realises he’s still alive, he gasps. That’s when he hears it. Potter’s voice. Calling his name, calling him _Draco_ , so quietly, so brokenly.

He opens his eyes and winces at the light, then he sees Potter, whose skin has taken a grey tint, staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Draco… hi.” Trembling fingers gently brush his hair away from his forehead. 

He blinks until he gets used to seeing again and finds out he’s in the only private room of the infirmary, where Madam Pomfrey takes care of students who are either contagious or require privacy. Books and rolls of parchment are stacked on the floor next to Potter’s chair, and Scarhead’s lap is covered with a thin blanket. Draco’s mind can’t comprehend this right away, but when he does, he croaks: “Have you been sleeping here?”

Potter’s laughter is wet. “Wasn’t going to leave you all alone.”

This man is a complete nutter, and it’s unbelievable. Draco’s throat is parched and welcomes the water Potter helps him drink. Then he asks why he cares. Potter glances at him oddly.

“That’s how friendship works, Draco.”

After that, Potter becomes Harry.

Draco slept for sixty hours as several spells prevented his death. When Harry tells him what cyanide is, he laughs until his ribs ache. The Great Draco Malfoy, killed by a Muggle poison. It’s hysterical. He thinks about Snape, how he would react if he knew his most gifted student didn’t know the name of the substance that makes the stone of some fruits dangerous.

He’s allowed to leave the infirmary if he takes it easy; he’s told it was a very near thing, his death, and Harry has already written to his mother to tell her he’s awake. She can’t visit, she’s still on house arrest.

Harry doesn’t let him go back to the Slytherin dorms alone; instead, he brings his books and his pillow and smirks at Draco’s raised eyebrow. 

“It’s Christmas Eve, so I’m staying with you.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“Smith has been arrested, but he’s not the only one who wants you dead. Not many of us are spending the holidays here, but I want you to be safe.”

A Hufflepuff poisoned Draco. How shameful. 

“Now that I know I need to check for Muggle substances too, I’ll be fine.”

“Mh.” He doesn’t believe him. Of course. “It’s lonely up the tower.”

“How about the Weasleys?” 

Doesn’t Harry spend all his vacations with them, when he can?

They walk down into the dungeons as Harry explains he’s not very keen on spending time away when a friend is on his own in the castle, after having narrowly escaped death. Draco bites back some retort about not needing pity, because there’s that word again, and Harry’s holding his hand and not letting go. The truth hits him and takes his breath away.

He’s falling for this idiotic Gryffindor.

***

“Can you stop- just- no, Scarhead, I don’t need help!” That unimpressed stare is amazing and unnerving at the same time. Yes, he can take a shower on his own. He can take off his clothes, too. “I’m not infirm!” 

Harry raises both hands in surrender, letting go of his tie. He steps back and sits on what would be Theo’s bed had the boy returned (Draco lives alone in the dorms, but the usual number of beds are there anyway). It’s where he’s apparently decided to sleep tonight. “You’re still weak.”

“I am not!”

“I don’t mean it like that.”

Draco knows that, but it’s fun to rile him up. He walks into the bathroom, all black marble and wide mirrors, sheds his clothes and steps under the shower, the water just a little bit too hot on his skin. He washes his hair, eyes shut. Even with the Dark Lord at the Manor, the movement of his fingers on his head always soothed him. Now, it’s a habit that he doesn’t wish to break. He takes his time, enjoying it until his traitorous brain chooses to imagine Harry pushing him against the wall. 

When he joins Harry in the dormitory afterwards, he knows his chest and neck are a bit flushed, and the heat of the water isn’t entirely responsible.

Harry is already lounging on the bed, reading a Quidditch magazine. He wears blue pajamas that have seen better days. It takes Draco a minute to adjust to his presence. He slips his legs underneath his fluffy quilt and grabs a book without intending to read it. It would be a waste. He wants to know Harry better, but where to start? They might appreciate each other’s company, but they don’t talk about private matters.

Draco tries, anyway.

“Forgive me for asking, but why do you wear that thing?” He gestures at his body.

Harry frowns and the top of his nose wrinkles. It’s absurdly cute. He shrugs and closes the magazine. “It still fits.”

“Are you-” He clears his throat, aware of how personal this is becoming. “Didn’t your parents leave you money? Or is Gringotts-”

Harry barks a laugh, startling him because Draco has rarely heard him laugh so loudly. “Just got that money back, actually. Gringotts banned me from the building until I paid for reparations and the cost of the dragon.” Draco blinks at him in confusion. “Er, we freed the dragon they’d chained up in the bank.”

What in Merlin’s name? He lets out a choked breath. “Why?! When did you do this?” 

“Bellatrix had a Horcrux in her vault.”

Shaken by a full-body shiver, Draco can only grimace at this revelation that does not surprise him at all. As a Malfoy and a Black, he knows a little about soul magic, and he suspected that the Dark Lord had dabbled in it. This is merely confirming it. 

Harry explains about his camping trip. He speaks of Snape’s involvement, of walking to his death and coming back to life. Draco always thought most of the tales he heard about Harry were at least partly fictional. Turns out he was wrong about that, too. The Basilisk? Harry tells him all about it.

Draco doesn’t ask, but he wants to. Harry smirks mischievously. “If you’re good, I’ll show you the Chamber.”

That was not a squeak. No. Draco doesn’t utter such undignified noises. But he’s so excited that he has trouble going to sleep.

He’ll be good, alright.

When he wakes up, it’s still dark outside. The eighth year dormitory is above the lake, created by Hogwarts herself when she noticed there was a need for extra space in the other Houses. Slytherin didn’t need any, not with only Draco coming back, but she still separated him from the lower years. Draco believes this dorm already existed; there were times when the student body was much larger than today. 

He stirs, looks to his right and smiles. Scarhead sleeps on his belly, peaceful and unfairly attractive (in reality, he’s drooling on his pillow and looks ridiculous, but Draco is blinded by his feelings).

There’s a real mountain of gifts at the foot of Harry’s bed. The house-elves are smart and brought them here during the night instead of leaving them in Gryffindor Tower. Draco doesn’t expect anything, so when he finds two gifts and a few envelopes for himself, he can’t deny being a little choked up.

He goes to the bathroom first, cleans his teeth and drinks some water, then comes back and sits on the floor and quietly unwraps the first one. It’s a book on Aztec Magic from Pansy, who finished her schooling in Ilvermorny with Theo (who signed the card with a drawing of an owl. Good to see he’s still inspired and getting better. Draco believes he’ll succeed in his dream to become a magical illustrator). Draco’s friends fled the country in fear of retaliation after one too many threatening letters, despite not being Marked. 

There’s a letter from his mum, who can’t use any of the Malfoy money during her house arrest, and her words warm Draco’s heart. A Christmas card from Longbottom and Lovegood, too. He sets it aside after reading it twice and grabs the second package. The card falls and reveals chicken scratch in blue ink.

_Prat,_

_Thought you’d enjoy these._

_Merry Christmas, arsehole._

_Love,_

_Scarhead_

He stares at the gift, then at the sleeping young man nearby, and back at the gift. He’d been hoping, but it’s still a pleasant surprise. He grits his teeth, slices through the wrapping and opens the box inside.

He blinks. That’s three gifts in one. The first one is a freaking stuffed dragon, or rather a fluffy ball with bulbous eyes, tiny wings and a long tail. It’s purple and green and absurd. Draco checks that Harry isn’t observing him and squeezes it. It shouldn’t be that comforting. He loves it instantly. Keeping it in his lap, he focuses on the lovely pair of gloves next. They’re quite tasteful, and he can tell they’re both expensive and sturdy. 

At the bottom of the box, he finds a book. It looks ancient. He caresses the cover and opens it.

His heart races. It’s a copy of _Stellar Magic: an introduction to secret knowledge_ , one of the rarest books in the world. It must have cost a bloody king’s ransom. Where did he find it? No one in Britain owns it, or if they do, they guard it with their lives. 

Draco spoke to Harry about it once, when he told him about forgotten magic. He didn’t think Harry would remember, let alone care!

He feels his eyes start to sting, and he sniffs, gathering his thoughts. Just in time, it seems, because Harry stumbles out of bed, looking hilariously ruffled. He reminds him of the oldest, crankiest bird in the owlery. Even with his glasses on, he still hits his foot against the doorframe of the bathroom. The muttered swearing that follows is almost sexy.

By the time Harry comes back, looking healthier than he has in months, his hair is wet, and he’s only wearing a towel around his hips. Draco tries very hard not to stare at the outline of his cock or the trail of dark hair under his navel. He busies himself with his gifts, cleaning up after himself and placing the dragon on his bed. No one but Harry and the elves will see it anyway.

“Morning,” Harry says. Draco nods, clears his throat, and forces himself to look him in the eye. 

“Hi. Thank you for your gifts. It was thoughtful of you.”

Harry grins, and Draco melts. “Maybe I should sleep here more often. I’ve rarely slept so well. Oh, did you see the name on the dragon?”

Curious, he looks closer. There’s a printed tag on the seam. Wizarding toys don’t have that, so it must be Muggle. 

_Draco the Fearsome Dragon_

His eyebrows shoot up. “Did you write that?”

Harry looks down and nervously rubs the back of his neck. “It’s mass-produced. It’s just its name. I was looking for something for my godson. I just- when I saw it, I couldn’t resist.”

Draco reigns in his emotions. He’s doomed. Harry scratches his head and gets dressed, and when Draco catches a glimpse of his naked body, his prick twitches in interest. He smothers it, as best as he can, sitting on the floor again and pulling his knees up. Harry dresses in the same clothes he wore yesterday.

The gift opening session lasts nearly half an hour. Special wards screen Harry's post, but even with the filter, some unwelcome packages still reach him. There’s a collection of poems, chocolate that Draco knows is laced with Amortentia (Harry sets the box on fire) and pictures that Draco instantly regrets looking at - some people have no shame about flashing their bits to the Saviour. In the end, Harry stops opening anything that comes from a stranger. 

He gets another hideous Weasley jumper, a book from Granger, sweets, and a tiny cactus (he laughs and says he can’t keep plants alive, so Longbottom chose well). He also gets a preserved cucumber from Lovegood. Not a surprise. She believes many vegetables have pest-repelling properties. If said pests exist is another story.

“If she hadn’t spent weeks babbling about Wackspurt infestation prevention, I’d think she’s trying to tell me something,” Harry tells him with a grin. “She’s done it before.”

Draco rests his chin in his palm. “Like what?”

He fidgets with a shiny piece of wrapping paper. “To get laid.”

Draco tilts his head and looks at the cucumber closely. It does have a rather phallic silhouette, now that he pays attention, and his mind latches onto Harry’s words. “Think you need to?”

Gaze directed towards the ceiling, Harry shrugs. “Dunno. I guess.”

This is not the kind of talk Draco is ready for. Not so early, and definitely not when his cock is acting up. But he’s burning with questions and feels like he might never have another chance to satisfy his curiosity. “Have you ever-?”

Harry has always been handsome, if too thin. Auror training is helping with that. He also dated the Weaselette for a while, and it was common knowledge that she’d slept around before, so surely-

“No, I’m- well, with a girl, yes. Once. Not all the way. I had offers from men when I came out. I declined them.”

Well. Draco stares at him and feels guilty for embarrassing him. “That’s okay. You were a tad busy. I guess you had other things on your mind.”

He gets a sheepish grin in return, which he finds adorable. 

“I wasn’t ready, you know.” He messes with his hair again, which really doesn’t need any help in Draco’s opinion. “Gin understood that. She never pushed.”

Draco has to admit he expected her to be less decent than that, but it’s his jealousy talking. He realises he should reply, and he chooses to share his secret too. “I’ve wanked and been wanked, that’s all. You’re not the only one.”

It used to be quite a big deal for him before the Dark Lord fucked things up for everyone. When his housemates fooled around, when he walked in on Blaise and Tracey… it seemed like he’d die a virgin. Or be condemned to sleep with the woman his parents would force him to marry. During the war, nothing could be further away from his mind though, and now he’s just happy to be alive. He wants to blame Harry for reawakening his sex drive, but he also wants to thank him for winning and ruining his parents' plans for his future.

Now there’s an odd gleam in Harry’s green eyes, but he’s opening Draco’s gift, and the previous conversation is put on hold. Just like Draco’s breathing. It was challenging to find a present without access to his money, so Draco made it himself. 

It’s a globe of memories. The magic is sophisticated, the runes under its base have never been used in this manner before, as far as Draco is aware. It’s similar to how the weather in the Great Hall works, using a combination of charms and conjuration. Flitwick gave him tips, and Draco sacrificed many November nights studying Pensieves and portraits. He’s proud of his accomplishment. 

With help from Hagrid, McGonagall, Slughorn and even his mother, he gathered memories of Harry’s parents and godfather. They’re like a photo album that also includes sound. Muggles call this a movie, he thinks.

There’s the entire 1971 Sorting; Lily attending the Slug Club; some of James’ desperate attempts to woo her. There’s Harry’s birth, Harry’s first words, Lily singing a lullaby, Sirius reading him a bedtime story, James telling him he loves him, Harry’s first birthday. 

Draco included older memories provided by McGonagall, who knew Euphemia Potter quite well. James’ birth, his shenanigans, his parents meeting Lily’s mother and father.

And there’s Harry catching the Snitch, too, and laughing with his friends. 

When Harry watches the first memory, which is his parents’ wedding ceremony (with Sirius and Remus flirting in the background), he’s rendered speechless. He looks up when it ends, and Draco thinks he’s about to cry. A few seconds later, he’s engulfed in the tightest hug he’s ever felt, and he squeezes back.

Harry is trembling against him. 

Then they’re nose to nose, and Draco drowns in these gorgeous eyes. He barely hears his heartfelt thank you, but when the kiss happens, he kisses back, and something explodes in his chest.

They don’t leave the dorms until a worried elf comes to check on them. They go back as soon as they finish dinner, their presence reassuring the staff that the Golden Boy didn’t get murdered. Draco is jittery, impatient and aroused, and Harry isn’t much better if the way his hands touch Draco’s arse is any hint. 

Draco straddles him as soon as he sits on his bed. Snogs the life out of him. Harry keeps breaking the kiss and asking if it’s okay, if he wants more, and Draco moans and grinds his hips down on him. Harry’s hard and burning hot in his shaky hand, and the wet spot on Draco’s trousers is getting larger. He sucks on Harry’s tongue, licks into his mouth and groans at the friction when a palm presses against his cock and finally frees it from its confinement. Harry tugs, Draco rolls his hips. A thumb slides under his foreskin and he bucks. 

“Fuck, do that again!” He kisses him deeply, tasting the sweetness of treacle tart and chocolate mousse. He’s so hard he can’t think. His fingers explore and tease. Harry calls his name in that breathless way that almost causes him to come. 

He won’t last long. 

Harry empties himself in Draco’s fist, and he follows soon after. Then he laughs because he can’t do anything else, because he’s just so damn happy, and Harry kisses him over and over again, a beautiful smile on his face. 

“Bloody brilliant,” he whispers, and Draco’s heart sings.

*** 

It’s January, but the students aren’t back yet. Harry still sleeps in Slytherin, but mostly in Draco’s arms now. He barely ever wakes up during the night; his nightmares are no longer a threat to his health, even if they still happen. He leaves early in the morning for his training, comes back for lunch, and they make out in-between essays and confessions. 

They learn about each other’s lives as much as they get to know each other’s bodies. They’re both clumsy and awkward, but eager to try new things. Draco discovers he loves sucking him off and Harry enjoys eating him out, something he wasn’t even aware could feel that good. He’s not that embarrassed anymore when Harry does it, though his cheeks and chest still flush. He suspects they’ll always do. It’s almost too intimate. 

Their first time occurs one snowy afternoon in Gryffindor Tower. It’s intense and terrifying and incredible - it’s everything Draco dreamed of and more.

They spend their remaining free time enjoying each other’s company, snogging in broom cupboards and secret passages. They fuck in the Quidditch locker rooms, the shower, their common rooms. Harry brings him to orgasm against a tree at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, and Draco bends him over a desk in an unused classroom. 

No teacher catches them, but it’s getting risky, now that most of them are coming back from their winter holidays. They need a completely private place. Draco hasn’t forgotten Harry’s promise: he uses their last few moments of peace, the evening before the return of the Hogwarts Express, to ask him about it with his most innocent expression. Harry is just putting the finishing touches on his Charms homework (yes, he forgot; no, Draco isn’t surprised) when Draco kisses his cheek, marvelling, as always, at the softness of his skin.

Harry hums, gaze riveted on his work.

“Remember what you said you’d show me if I was good?” Draco purrs, feeling the pull of a smirk at the corner of his lips. 

Harry blinks and looks at him. “Huh. No?”

“Second year. Basilisk.”

He sees understanding dawning in those thrice-damned eyes. 

Then Harry says, “You don’t need to be good if you want to see my Basilisk.” And Draco wants to bury his face in his hands, but all he does is snort and poke his shoulder repeatedly. It’s become a habit lately.

“Okay,” Harry continues, batting his hand away, and he’s grinning like a madman, the prat, “get ready to be covered in muck.”

 _A Malfoy does not go about rolling in the dirt_ , his father’s voice echoes in his mind. As much as the idea of getting dirty makes him uneasy, it’s far from the shivers of disgust he used to get when he was younger. Getting covered in blood and forced to crawl and humiliate himself to entertain a monster fixed that for him.

Harry grabs his Firebolt so that they can get back out of the Chamber easily. They walk hand in hand in the empty corridors, ignoring the portraits’ whispers, though it’s very hard not to stare at Sir Cadogan making a fool of himself to impress a group of witches. Harry’s thumb strokes the back of his hand, and he smiles, a little sadly. “We had him guarding the entrance of the Tower in third year.”

“That must have been fun.”

“You have no idea! He kept changing the password and would try to duel us, and he even let Sirius into the common room because he had the list of every password for the past few weeks, courtesy of Neville. He was proud of it, too.”

Oh. Right. That reminds him of how bloody creepy Pettigrew was. Sleeping in a child’s bed for years? Living in his pockets? Not to mention the snivelling, the cowardice - Draco knows a bit about being a coward. But he did what he had to, to protect his family. Pettigrew betrayed his friends, pretended to love them while serving the one who wanted to kill them, all for his own interests. Pettigrew had no pride. He wasn’t threatened into service. He was a willing Death Eater, not because he believed so strongly in Pureblood supremacy, but because he was a twisted, sad excuse of a man and wanted to feel relevant and useful.

Draco despises him.

A warm kiss on his cheek brings him back to reality, where he finds Harry looking at him in a way that is reminiscent of a patient parent. “Earth to Draco.”

“Sorry. Memories.”

Harry nods, and they keep walking. 

It’s nice to be with someone who doesn’t need words to understand him. They’re so attuned to each other - it’s almost scary. 

When they reach Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, Draco flinches and immediately feels guilty at the horror on Harry’s face.

“Oh bugger, I’m sorry, I didn’t think-” He tries to step back, but Draco won’t let him. That’s over and done with.

“It’s fine, Harry.” He kisses him until he relaxes. 

Of course, Myrtle comes wailing out of a toilet stall, though she stops when she recognises them. She floats much too close for Draco’s comfort, hands on her hips. “You’ve left me all alone!”

Grey eyes meet green. Harry gives a small shrug as if to tell Draco he’s on his own. Draco doesn’t hate Myrtle. She was the only one he could talk to in sixth year. Yes, she’s annoying and nosy and has no concept of personal space or appropriate behaviour, but she’s the ghost of a bullied child, and she never judged him. Draco sympathises with her. Being a ghost must be lonely.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Myrtle sniffs with typical Malfoy-ish disdain. Draco is almost proud. “I’ll do better.”

He won’t. Seeing her brings back too many things he’d rather forget. 

She hovers behind them, placated for now, then Harry fucking hisses at the sink and Draco’s heart leaps out of his chest. Only years of learning to hide his emotions prevent him from showing how surprised he is. He waits for the fear to come, and when it doesn’t, he takes a deep breath.

Harry’s voice in Parseltongue doesn’t sound like the Dark Lord’s. That must be why he doesn’t go past “startled”. 

“I wasn’t sure I could still speak,” Harry explains, rubbing his scar. Did he notice Draco’s emotionless mask? Surely, he must have. If that is the case, Draco is grateful that he doesn’t speak of it.

Sliding down the pipes is not as fun as it sounds. It’s actually pretty scary and very, very slimy. He lands in a pile of rubble - and are those bones?! He casts a Bubblehead charm on them both because the smell down there may well be his undoing. It’s like a mix of stagnant water, rotten meat and contaminated dust, and it sticks to his skin. 

“Not sure what I expected,” he mutters to himself and Harry laughs. That may be a completely private place, but there’s no way they’ll ever have sex down there.

They climb over the rubble. That’s where Lockhart Obliviated himself, then. If only he’d been there to witness that.

Draco braces himself when Harry opens the next door, but the sight is so shocking that he can only gasp and cling to Harry’s hand. 

“That’s what you fought?!”

The snake is in pristine condition. There’s some odd magical energy around it, which Draco recognises only because it feels exactly like what the Malfoy elves use on food to keep it from spoiling (Draco was never supposed to go in the kitchen, so of course he spent many afternoons sneaking in). So, either an insane house-elf visited the Chamber years ago, or it’s been built into the foundations of the room.

“I thought it would just be bones,” Harry claims, walking closer to the creature. He touches its scaly head and gently rubs it, and Draco marvels at his strength. If that thing had come after Draco with the intent of eating him, the trauma alone would have forced him to stay far away from it. 

But Harry is sorry. Harry apologises to the Basilisk because it was starving and manipulated and- alright, Draco gets it. It makes sense. If the Basilisk had been a murderous beast all along, Myrtle wouldn’t have been its first victim. The Dark Lord did something to it. Bound it to his will, perhaps. 

The Basilisk is beautiful. Its scales shimmer in the magical light that makes the whole place look like the Slytherin common room. Part of Draco feels a pang of sadness for the loss of such a magnificent creature, but his Slytherin brain sees the answer to a few of his current problems: money.

The Malfoy vaults are currently locked for the duration of his mother’s punishment. Draco cannot get control over them until he’s 25, because his father is still alive - and because the Ministry finds it convenient. He can’t bear the thought of living at Malfoy Manor anymore. He knows the Wizengamot didn’t appreciate Harry’s testimony, so they will be looking into legal ways to make his life difficult after Hogwarts.

But if he makes his own money, he can pay for an apprenticeship, a roof over his head that won’t give him nightmares… he can take care of himself. An entire Basilisk is worth enough that even if he never gets access to the Malfoy vaults, he’ll live comfortably for the rest of his life. Unless he starts buying a dozen mansions, he’ll be fine.

Technically, Harry killed it, so it belongs to him. Draco chews on the inside of his cheek, unsure.

In the end, Harry beats him to it and asks, voice a bit muffled by the Bubblehead charm, “Do you want to use it for potions?”

“I was thinking about selling it.” No point in lying. Why would he? This is Harry. Not someone whom Draco needs to hide anything from. 

“Would it bring you more money?”

“Most potions you can make with Basilisk parts are too volatile. I’d waste ingredients attempting to replicate something that hasn’t been done in centuries. I’d rather let someone else try it after I already took their money.”

Harry smirks and shakes his head, muttering something about Slytherins and smart cookie - Draco doesn’t know what that last one means but it doesn’t sound negative. He’d rather be a cookie than a ferret.

“You can have it.” Draco wants to hug him and jump up and down. He doesn’t do it, because the floor is slippery and he sees such an endeavour ending badly. “Can I ask for a small share? Gin deserves it.”

“Of course. Maybe for the petrified students, too?” He winces slightly because Creevey is dead, but he’s sure his family would still appreciate a donation if the Malfoy name isn’t tied to it. 

Harry agrees and calls for Kreacher - the oldest, most decrepit elf Draco has ever seen. His mother told him about the malevolent occupant of the former Black house, but he doesn’t seem that horrible. A bit unhinged, clearly, because there’s a weird glint in his eyes, but quite ready to help Master Harry Potter, the Great Avenger of Poor Master Regulus. Harry mouths “I’ll tell you later” and requests the elf’s help.

Good. Draco has no wish to cut the Basilisk open himself.

While the elf works, humming a disturbing tune and cackling (and Merlin, Draco hates it), Harry and Draco set to exploring the tunnels. It’s the best way to avoid that gory spectacle. 

They don’t find much, but still more than they expected. The Chamber has areas where large groups of students could hide. It has food reserves under centuries-old stasis, general supplies and a considerable number of unmarked barrels - a sensible idea at a time where magic was starting to be looked at more closely by the Muggles. While the church-sanctioned killings didn’t start until the Founders and their children’s children were dead and buried, they still happened occasionally, and Hogwarts had been under siege - not because of magic, but because of the insanity that was Britain and its numerous kingdoms at the time.

There’s a library. It’s empty; the Dark Lord took everything. Draco’s Mark recognises his residual magic, and it itches, so they don’t linger.

They sit near the barrels, as the area is dry and lacks any sort of dark remnants. Draco uses a spell to clean Harry’s clothes, skin and hair as well as possible, earning an indignant squawk and getting the same treatment in return. He swears and shudders. It feels like being dunked in a cold bath. A warming charm later and Draco rests his head on Harry’s shoulder. Their fingers are laced together. If Draco isn’t careful, he’ll blurt out a love confession a bit too soon.

“I don’t want to be an Auror.”

Draco doesn’t reply - Harry doesn’t need his opinion right now. 

“We’re doing drills at the moment. Simulations. I- I had a panic attack a few days ago because I had to dodge a fake Killing curse.” Draco tightens his hold on his fingers. “I knew it would happen; I just thought I’d be okay. But it’s too much. I don’t know what to do.”

Draco knows all about the weight of expectations. Honestly, it’s astonishing that Harry managed to go through more than a year of training with his history and trauma. It breaks his heart to understand that he did it to satisfy other people when he, more than anyone else, deserves some serenity and the freedom to choose his future.

Advice is on the tip of his tongue, but is it the best time? The Ministry and the public can go fuck themselves, as far as Draco is concerned, but Harry’s mind doesn’t work that way. 

He decides on another course of action. He lets go of his hand and wraps him in a gentle embrace. “Whatever you decide, I’ll be there. I’ll support you.”

Harry looks at him with suspiciously wet eyes. “Draco-” He breathes in and out a few times, slowly, then leans in and kisses him. It’s strange with the Bubblehead charm, but a kiss is a kiss, and Draco returns it enthusiastically. 

Kreacher interrupts them when he’s done and takes the remains of the Basilisk away with a new task: find the best offers and stay away from British wizards and illegal organisations. There’s nothing left of the carcass when they walk back out, and their adventure of the day ends on a somewhat humorous note: McGonagall catches them in Myrtle’s bathroom just as the sink moves back into its original position.

They get detention for being out of their dorms past curfew and Draco is outraged: it’s his first detention since the Forbidden Forest adventure in first year (any detention in sixth year does not count. Extenuating circumstances). Harry just finds it funny. 

*** 

Their relationship is front-page news after a careless show of affection.

He receives an unholy amount of hate mail until McGonagall readjusts the wards to block post coming from within the school. Threats are whispered in the corridors, and he’s hexed by jealous fans who team up with those who want him dead for the mark he bears. 

In just one day, Hogwarts turns into a living hell.

Harry joins him in the Slytherin common room, as usual, not caring if the other Slytherins are present. They hug each other, and Draco bites his lip and struggles against the tears. He’s exhausted. 

Harry holds him close, and they slowly make their way to the dormitory. Kreacher is there, and at the foot of the bed Harry sometimes slept in, there’s Harry’s trunk. 

Confused, Draco turns to face him. “What are you doing?”

“Moving in.”

“But McGonagall-”

“Agreed, because Seamus tried to set me on fire.” 

The urge to scream and check him for injury is strong.

Harry grins, but it’s not a nice smile. There’s a sharp edge to it, one that shows that he’s had enough. “He’s spreading tales of me being a traitor, too, and Ron took offence. Pomfrey won’t heal him, and Dean threatened to break up with him. Draco, nobody hurts the people I love, and I won’t leave your side.”

He flushes. “Wease- Weasley defended me?”

“Well, both of us really. Most of the seventh and eighth year Gryffindors support me and are ready to give you a chance.”

It’s unexpected, but Draco guesses that Weasley must be a decent person to be Harry’s best friend and Granger’s boyfriend. 

The next time he sees him, he apologises for his past behaviour and his mistakes. He’s reluctantly accepted at the Gryffindor table for meals. In February, Granger, Weasley, Longbottom, Lovegood, two eighth year Ravenclaws and the Weaselette enter the Slytherin common room for the first time (Draco then learns that Weasley has been there before, too, and he has to admit it’s amusing).

The rest of the school is still wary or hateful, but the attacks stop. It’s a bit humiliating to rely on the Golden Trio’s help for his safety, but he didn’t ask them to do it, so it’s alright. It’s nice to be able to get out of the common room without keeping a shield up at all times.

Harry resigns from the Aurors, so he fills his mornings with self-study. He pursues his interest in runes, progressing slowly even with Granger and Draco’s assistance, and Draco is proud of him for standing his ground when the Ministry comes begging. His resignation is a blow to their reputation. 

***

Draco tells him he loves him in March.

Harry asks him to move in with him at the end of the school year, and Draco agrees.

***

They graduate together, Harry with an O in Charms and Defence, Draco with straight O’s in every subject. It’s been a long time since Draco has felt that much pride in himself and he’s in such an excellent mood that going back to the Manor doesn’t trigger any anguish. His mother, usually so composed and regal, cries and peppers his face in kisses. She’s healthy and strong, but she clearly missed him.

He promises to visit, but he doesn’t stay the night. He moves into Grimmauld Place, which looks nothing like the grotesque dwelling his mother told him about. It’s not perfect; it’s old and the paint is peeling off the walls, but it’s devoid of dark magic and artefacts, and it’ll do until they find another place to live. Draco the Fearsome Dragon has a place of honour on the nightstand, next to the memory globe.

Sometimes, they still wake up screaming, startle at sudden noises or the sight of certain spells. No magic on earth can heal their minds with a quick flick of a wand, but they have each other’s support when things get dark. 

Harry gets tutoring in runes: after finding out that Lily Potter had once entertained the hope of earning a Mastery in warding, it seems he’s found his calling. Draco is smug every time he manages to explain something better than his tutor, and Granger’s delight at her friend’s study habits is infectious.

For Draco, things aren’t that easy. When he’s lucky, he gets rejection letters. Most of the time, the Masters he contacts never reply. He’s still unsure about what he wants; any mastery in a subject he enjoys would be useful. It’s not like he has many opportunities. The Goblins eventually accept to take him on into the curse-breaking program so he can get valuable experience - perhaps he’ll end up working for them, maybe not. Still, it’s an offer he can’t afford to refuse for now, and it may become his ticket to the Department of Mysteries later.

***

Exactly six years after their first kiss, Wardmaster Harry James Potter gets down on one knee.

Unspeakable Draco Lucius Malfoy says yes.

**Author's Note:**

> This was totally supposed to be a Christmas fic. Not anymore!


End file.
